


Normally

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-05-04
Updated: 1999-05-04
Packaged: 2018-11-11 00:47:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11137914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Sometimes, someone has feelings, but they aren't reciprocated. Sometimes, life isn't fair. I'm sorry it isn't.





	Normally

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Normally

# Normally

**This carries a m/m premise, but no sex. Sorry.**

Sometimes someone has feelings, but they are not reciprocated. Sometimes life isn't fair. I'm sorry it isn't. 

The characters are not mine, although I would be happy if I had managed to come up with them on my own. No, in fact they belong to Alliance  &c. And I didn't hurt any of them. Honestly. 

*No Mounties were actually hurt in the making of this story.* 

"Ask me why I say it's most unusual How can I even try to explain Why today I feel like dancing Singing like lovers sing When I wouldn't normally do this kind of thing. 

Ask me when I say it started when I met you And ever since then I knew that the past couldn't last For right now I feel like running A race I know I'm gonna win And I wouldn't normally do this kind of thing." 

-The Pet Shop Boys 

(Alright, so maybe it's not lyrics from Sarah McLaughlin, but the sentiment is there.) 

*I Wouldn't Normally Do This Sort Of Thing.* 

*Friday.* 

It was the third day in a row he hadn't eaten breakfast. He felt a pang of remorse, but not hunger, as he took up his sentry duty outside the Canadian Consulate. Things had been so rough lately. Why couldn't life just settle down? 

His eyes fixed on the street across from him. A few passers-by, several people he already recognized. He stood to attention at his post. The day was overcast, giving the whole street a grey tone. Yes, it was depressing. It felt like rain. 

As he thought these thoughts, it did, in fact begin to rain. Fraser silently cursed his lot, but squared his shoulders for the onslaught. The pavement speckled with a few drops of rain. He closed his eyes ruefully. At least it was Friday . . . 

He got home late that night, still in a funk. He pulled his boots off, then placed his hat on the table. The afternoon's rainfall hadn't cheered him up any. At least it wasn't snowing. Diefenbaker trotted beside him, casting a worried glance up at his companion. Fraser looked down. 

"Don't worry, Diefenbaker." He lovingly scruffed the wolf's neck. "Everything's fine." 

But, in fact, everything was not fine. There was something weighing heavily on Fraser, something he was only just realizing himself. It was the reason his existence had seemed so bleak recently. He was doing his best to avoid thinking about it, but the long periods of inactivity his sentry post so often called for were not helping his frame of mind. Time to relax, he thought, as he began hanging out his wet clothes. He pulled off his shirt, and hung it next to the tunic on a hanger. His undershirt was wet, too. Sighing, he pulled it off and tucked it into his laundry basket. He pulled on a (thankfully) dry t-shirt, and found a pair of jeans and clean socks. He hopped undignified about the room, wrestling with his damp pants, finally getting them off. Then he slid into his jeans. 

Friday night. Friday night. What was he going to do on a Friday night with no one but his wolf? He sat on the edge of his bed, chin in hands. Dief looked at him quizzically. He whined. 

"You think I should go out, Dief?" He said morosely. Dief came over to him and nuzzled his knee. Fraser patted his head, distracted. "I suppose I could . . . I don't have to stay here, do I?" 

Dief cocked his head, wondering why Fraser didn't just go and *do* something. If he was so lonely, why didn't he go out? 

Fraser got off the bed. He picked up his turtle-necked sweater, and pulled it on. Then he picked up his wallet from beside his bed, and stuck it in his back pocket. He went over to Dief's bowl, checked his water supply, and gave him a cup of dog food. Dief looked away. He hated kibble. But Fraser was saying something. He looked back. 

"You be good while I'm gone." He tied his shoes, kneeling at the door. "If I find out you've caused any trouble while I'm gone . . . " He left the threat hanging. Dief whined. 

"I'll be good, too. I promise." He went out, and closed the door. Dief sniffed his kibble, then went back to lay by Fraser's bed, watching the door for his companion's return. 

Fraser found himself wandering down a busy street, without really a hint of where he was going. His unfailing sense of direction told him he was going South, but he didn't know his destination. In fact, he was pretty much unaware of anything that was happening around him. His mind was busy turning one thought over and over in his head. 

"How?" He thought. "How can this be?" 

As a high-calibre Mountie, he had learned to hide his feelings deep inside. It protected him from the everyday hurts he suffered. It didn't stop him caring about people, whether it was the homeless, runaways, or even victims of unsolvable cases, but it did stop him from showing his suffering. In fact, lately it had seemed to intensify his anguish. He stopped as the lights on the corner changed to red. A few taxis pulled around the corner, carrying couples or even triples. No one seemed to be alone. 

Well, he shrugged. People always did seem to be the most alone in a big city. He looked up at the buildings around him. Bars, clubs . . . he sighed. Alone in a bar didn't seem as bad as alone on a street corner. And it was probably safer. 

He pushed through the door of the bar, into a darkened crowd. There were a few blue neon lights running around the room where the walls met the ceiling. The bar was black, and highly polished, its flowing lines easing among the customers, turning into a darkened row of booths at the back. It seemed harmless enough. 

Anxiously, if not a bit timidly, Fraser wove his way toward the bar. Lithe backs in t-shirts, sweaters and coats jostled slightly around him. He tapped on the bar, and the barkeep slid his way. 

"Yes?" 

"I'd like a. . . . " He searched the lists uneasily. "A Canadian?" 

The barkeep smiled, and slid a frosty bottle and glass across the bar to him. Fraser slapped down the money to pay for it, and headed toward the back, where the booths were. He was stopped by a blonde man, his short hair in tiny spikes. 

"Hey, man, you got a light?" He asked. 

"Sorry, I don't smoke." Fraser said. 

"Neither do I!" The man laughed, then touched Fraser's arm. "May I join you?" 

"By all means." Fraser said. "I'm never one to deny company." 

He knew, of course, that he was being "hit on" as Ray so succinctly liked to put it. This young man, with his blonde hair and earrings, couldn't have been more than twenty. And still he seemed so sure of what he was doing. Fraser marvelled at the young man's courage. It had probably taken a lot of guts to come here with this purpose in mind. He and the young man seated themselves at a booth, and Fraser twisted the top off his beer. 

"You come here often?" The young man asked. 

"No." Fraser confessed. "I don't normally do this sort of thing." 

The young man took a sip of his rum and coke. He looked out at the crowd. Fraser looked, too. The crowd was easily separated into those there to pick up, be picked up, and those present just to dance. He poured his beer into the pint glass, watching the bubbles foam up to the edge of the glass. There seemed to be no lonely people. Or if he looked again, everyone was lonely. He took a mouthful of beer. 

"My name's Sean." The young man said, extending a hand across the table. Fraser took it dryly, and shook. 

"Benton." He said. 

"You know, you have wonderful bones." Sean was becoming more excited. Fraser raised an eyebrow in scepticism. "No, I mean it. I'm an artist," he said, as if this entitled him to say it. "Well, a photographer. I take pictures." He looked at Fraser. "What are you doing in Chicago?" 

"I'm a Canadian." Fraser said. 

"And that's your *job*?" Sean smirked. 

"Well, I'm a Mountie." Fraser admitted. 

"You ride horses for a living?" 

"I work at the Canadian Consulate. Doing investigations, working with the police force . . . " 

"Basically a cop." Sean added. 

"Yeah, basically a cop." He sighed inwardly. Where was this going to lead? 

"Well, uh, Ben . . . " Sean said, looking him right in the face, "What I'd really like is to take some pictures of you." Fraser was flustered, and began to protest, but Sean held up a hand. "No, don't worry about it. It's nothing nasty . . . But I've been looking for the ideal person for this shoot that's coming up, and I think you'd be perfect." 

"Sean, you've only known me for three minutes." Fraser pointed out. 

"And you have a lot of soul. I like that." Sean toyed with the lime in his drink. "Come, on, will you?" 

"I- I'll think about it." Fraser said nervously, not knowing whether he meant it or not. His palms were sweating. Sean handed him a small white business card. He took it. 

"You call me." Sean said. "This could make you famous . . . " 

Fraser sat bewildered as Sean left the booth. What was his life coming to? Why was he sitting in a bar, talking to . . . a kid? A three-minute conversation that had left him both agitated and strangely relaxed. Maybe it was the beer. He took another sip, laying the card down on the surface in front of him. And he just stared at it. All of the worries of the past week were coming over him again. 

"How?" He thought again. "How could this happen?" 

He was perplexed over the new feelings that had come over him in the past week. It was the reason he had spent so much time on sentry duty at the Consulate. He wanted a chance for his mind to numb, so he wouldn't have to think about it. He sighed inwardly as he thought about . . . well, what he had been thinking about all week. 

He thought about Ray. He thought about the spicy arrogant Italian, and he thought about his taste in clothes. (He thought about his taste in ties and grimaced.) He thought about Ray, and wondered why he never seemed to think about anything else. Ray was in his thoughts, the places he went, even the air he breathed. Chicago air. Chicago air breathed by Ray in Chicago. Air breathed by Fraser in Chicago. 

He was obsessing and he knew it. He didn't know why he was doing it. He had tried to rationalize it and failed. Ray was a man, and Fraser knew it. He'd known it and that still had not deterred him. Somehow, there was this illogical part of his brain that kept bringing Ray up every time he tried to think of something else. So what was he going to do? Sit in a bar with a hundred other people who were not Ray, and drink beer? 

Fraser looked down at his glass. It was empty. He wanted another one. He slid over to the bar, and bought another. He stayed at the bar, nursing the cold glass. Why was he thinking of Ray? Maybe there was some part in him that found him (gasp) attractive? Was that it? He saw Ray again in his mind's eye. He saw Ray sliding expertly behind the wheel and driving him home from work. He saw Ray looking up at him as he walked into the precinct at lunch time. He saw the happiness of Ray's features whenever he said something that pleased him. He'd tried to do that, to say something he thought Ray would find amusing. Even his thank you's seemed to make him smile. Why? Why did he have to make Ray smile? 

He was still pondering when last call went out. He stared at his watch in surprise. He had not meant to stay as long as he did. Fraser swigged the last of his beer, and bought one more. That made . . . he'd forgotten how many he'd had. That surprised him too. He hadn't meant to go drinking, either. 

What had he been thinking? His mind was blurry, as if he was dreaming. He was thinking of . . . no, he'd forgotten. He sighed again. Forgotten. He'd tried to forget something. 

The bar was clearing out, people taking their partners, their lovers, home to bed, home to a hotel room. Fraser took himself out of the bar. He walked North, passing under streetlights that shone bluish in the night. He thought probably he should hail a cab . . . He raised his arm to flag one down, but to his surprise, not a cab but a green Buick pulled up at the curb. 

"Hey Benny." Ray smiled. "What you doing so far from home?" 

Fraser blinked violently. Ray was here? 

"Uh, Ray?" He said uneasily. "You on patrol?" His mind struggled against the fog in his head. 

"On my way home. Need a lift?" 

Fraser fumbled with the door handle, and finally yanked the door open. He got into the car beside Ray. 

"Guess that's a yes." Ray mumbled. Fraser pulled the door shut again. Ray pulled away from the curb and took the next left. "What are you doing out so late, Benny?" 

What, did the cop think he hadn't got a life? Was he being mocked? 

"I have a social life." Fraser mumbled. 

"Yeah, which frequently includes not eating and drinking heavily." Ray said pointedly. "Something's bugging you, isn't it?" 

Fraser looked out the windshield. Bugging him? Gnawing him away from the inside was more like it. He let his head fall back on to the headrest, and laughed softly in the back of his throat. 

"You could say that." He swallowed. 

"Anything I can do to help?" Ray offered. 

Fraser tilted his head to look at Ray. There was genuine concern in the man's eyes. 

"No." He lied. 

"You're miserable. I can see that." The car swept around another corner. "You've been like this since Monday. Even when you're being polite you're miserable. Now that's serious. That's not like you. Neither is going out and getting drunk. What's wrong?" 

Fraser could feel his heart beating faster. Ray wanted to know. Ray really cared about him! He swallowed again. How could he say this? 

"Ray, you're-" He stopped himself. Ray was what? Ray was occupying every waking thought of his from waking to sleeping? Ray was in his dreams at night? Ray was in his blood, in his lungs, in his heart? Ray was . . . "-concerned. About me. I know. It's just . . . I'm trying to . . . figure things out for myself right now." 

"Oh I understand." Ray said, staring out the front window. "You can go to a bar and talk to complete strangers, but you won't tell a good friend what's eating you. Fine." 

They drove in silence until Ray pulled up in front of Fraser's apartment building. 

"Hey Benny." Ray nudged him. "You awake? We're here." 

Fraser looked out the window. His vision was blurry. He was home. He pushed open the door and began walking to the door. He had a little problem with the curb, though, and tripped once, skinning his palms on the cement. Ray was beside him, helping him to his feet. 

"Here, let me help you." 

Ray led him into the building and up to his apartment. Diefenbaker was at the door instantly, awakened from a wolf's light sleep by the vibrations of footsteps in the hallway. Fraser collapsed onto his bed, bone tired. His head was spinning, and he didn't feel good. He felt Ray pull his shoes off, then he struggled out of his sweater. He lifted his head, and saw Ray putting his shoes by the door. 

"Ray?" He asked weakly. 

Ray turned to look at him. 

"Ben?" He asked. 

"N-nothing." Fraser breathed. "Thank you for driving me home." 

"No problem, Benny." Ray pulled the blanket over Fraser. "You get some sleep, hey?" 

Fraser nodded sleepily, his eyes closed. Ray went to the door. 

"Good night, Ben." He said softly, switching off the light. 

"Good night Ray." Fraser mumbled, drifting off to sleep. "Love you." 

Ray paused with his hand on the doorknob. No, that couldn't have been it. He closed the door, went downstairs to his car, and drove home. 

*Saturday.* 

Fraser woke up the next day with a raging headache, and nearly vomited the moment he swung his feet out of bed. Dief whined and stuck his cold nose into Fraser's palm. He shuddered and pulled his hand away. Blearily, he ran a hand over his face, attempting to clear the fog in his vision. He looked at his watch, still on his wrist. Noon. 

Fraser went to the sink, splashed cold water on his face, and drank from cupped hands. The water seemed to calm his stomach a little. He still felt horrible. He dragged himself over to his bed, stripping off the rumpled t-shirt and collapsing onto his back on the bed. He sighed. 

He had gone out to make him forget. Well, he had forgotten all right, but all he had forgotten how he had gotten home last night. He remembered a feverish dream where Ray had tucked him into bed, and smiled. He must have walked. He sat up carefully, noticing that his sweater was in a lump on the floor. He rescued it and hung it on a hook. His shoes were beneath the hook, carelessly flung into the corner. He frowned. He would never treat shoes like that. Oh, well, it must have been Ray . . . 

He paused. Ray. So Ray had driven him home last night. Ray had driven him home when he was drunk . . . Shamed, Fraser buried his face in his pillow, holding his breath so he would not cry out. He was ashamed at how he had acted. He had done without thinking, acted without reason. And all he had to show for it was a hangover and a sudden need to go to the bathroom . . . 

Fraser stumbled to the bathroom and looked himself over in the mirror. There were dark circles under his eyes, a remainder of the night's pointless drinking. He relieved himself, and thoughtfully returned the seat to its down position before flushing. He rinsed his mouth out with a glass of water, and returned to his room. No sooner had he begun to crawl back into bed than a knock came at his door. 

"Come in!" He called, and as the door opened he belatedly realized he was not wearing a shirt. 

It was Ray, holding a paper bag and a coffee cup. 

"Hey Benny. I thought after your wild night you might appreciate some coffee and a muffin." 

"Ray, I can make my own coffee." He protested weakly. 

"Coffee is never better than Patrick Roy's." Ray said approvingly, holding out the Styrofoam cup. Fraser took it and gulped a mouthful. He was right, it was good. Fraser nodded. 

"Thanks Ray." Fraser took the paper bag containing the muffin and paper napkins. He opened the bag. A carrot muffin. More sensible than some of Ray's usual choices for breakfast. At least it wasn't a maple syrup donut . . . 

He managed a respectable bite of muffin to calm his stomach, and as he sat on his bed eating, Ray hovered uncertainly nearby. Finally, he pulled up a chair, and sat down. 

"Benny . . . " He said uncertainly, "Last night you really spooked me. What's got into you lately? Are you having problems?" 

Fraser swallowed a mouthful of muffin. Ray looked worried. But could he trust him? Well, it wasn't such a matter of trust as . . . understanding. Would Ray understand? He cleared his throat. 

"This is going to be difficult." He was telling the truth. Even in this peaceful little room, the silence was eating him alive. He had to talk, to get it out at last. "How can I even try to explain?" 

"Start at the beginning." Ray suggested. 

"It started when I met you." Fraser sighed. Ray looked perplexed. "Everything changed. My life changed. I started doubting things I'd always taken for granted. Who I was, what I was doing. I found myself doing things uncharacteristic of myself. Take, for example, last night. In any form of right mind I would never do that. But last night I was trying to forget. And it would seem that I forgot myself as well." 

"So you went out and got dead drunk to forget . . . what?" Ray was clearly not comfortable with this revelation. What was going on? 

"To forget how I'm feeling." Came the miserable reply. 

Ray managed to put two and two together, but it didn't seem to add up correctly. Benny went drinking, Benny was telling him this . . . Benny . . . had feelings for him? 

"Benny, are you saying you're attracted to me?" His face was dead serious. Fraser looked at him with hopeful blue eyes. Ray's heart sank. 

He stood up as Fraser mustered the courage to say "yes" very quietly and very sincerely. Ray was stunned. He was shocked, he was mortified, he was terribly, terribly angry. 

Fraser watched in fear as Ray rose, dreading what would come next. But instead of a sneer or a laugh, or even some outward sign of attraction or repulsion, Ray's face remained unreadable. The Italian walked over to the door, watching him with calm green eyes. He opened the door, and stepped into the hall. Then he pulled the door shut. 

Now, for probably the only time, Fraser wished he had a lock on his door. He was mortified, terrified that Ray would do or say something that would ruin him forever. As it was, Ray had already left the room. Fraser wanted to lock him out, keep him from entering his life ever again. Biting his lip, he turned over and buried his head in his pillow in misery. 

Ray was Catholic. The only relationships he had ever had were ones sanctifiable by the church. He knew all too well the horror stories about paedophile priests and Sodom and Gomorrah. He knew how he felt about it. He left the building, walked around the corner and promptly threw up into the gutter. 

How dare Fraser do this to him! How could he be seen that way? He wasn't perverted like that! Hell, for most of the time he didn't even find his own body attractive when he was naked! And for months he had been working with this . . . this sick twisted Canadian who had been secretly harbouring feelings for him! He was filled with indignation at the thought of being turned over in Fraser's mind, examined from every angle, mentally undressed, taken advantage of . . . 

Ray turned around and went back inside. He nearly ran up the stairs in his haste to reach Fraser. When he kicked open the door, he could see the Mountie stretched face down on the bed, his face buried in a pillow. At the sound of the door thumping into the wall, Fraser turned. 

By that time, Ray was already on him, striking at him with all his pent-up anger. Fraser tried to fend him off, but hung over as he was, he only managed to connect once. Ray pushed him to the floor and kicked him several times. Hard. Fraser collapsed, wheezing, the breath knocked out of him. 

Ray stood over Fraser, panting from the sudden exertion, when a low growl reached his ears. Diefenbaker, startled from his reverie by Ray's sudden violent actions, was coming toward him, teeth bared, ears flat against his head. 

"Ray don't move." Fraser gasped. "He'll kill you." Ray stood very still. Diefenbaker still drew near him, the growl becoming more angry. Fraser reached out a hand for the wolf. There was blood on the knuckles, Ray saw. Fraser grabbed the wolf's collar, hanging on because Ray's life depended on it. "Ray, back away toward the door. Now!" Fraser wheezed, still trying to catch his breath. Ray backed to the door, pulled it shut and turned tail and ran. 

Fraser let go of Dief with a groan. He lay on the floor, his face pressed against the rough floor boards, and thought of Ray. He tasted blood in his mouth and felt it on his hands and face. There was an ache in his side, sharp when he breathed, but he didn't think anything was broken. All his energy was gone. Suddenly he felt very, very weak and tired. He closed his eyes. 

*Sunday.* 

Ray was feeling worse and worse about Saturday's events. He couldn't believe he had been that callous! Fraser had opened up to him, and what had he done? Beaten him up and left him on the floor of his apartment. 

Ray sighed inwardly. He felt like the world's biggest idiot. He shouldn't have judged Fraser on who he found attractive. He shouldn't have turned on him like that. Fraser had trusted him, and he had betrayed that trust. He felt horrible. He had to apologize. 

When he knocked lightly on the door, he was expecting Fraser to open the door. Instead he got no response. He knocked louder. Finally, when he pounded on the door, it swung open. Cautiously, Ray stepped into the apartment. Fraser was laying on his bed, his back to Ray. 

"Benny . . . " Ray went over to Fraser, and touched his shoulder. He knew something was wrong the moment he got there. 

Fraser's arms were bleeding from two gashes, one on each wrist. The blood was soaking into towels he had laid underneath him. The towels were nearly entirely red. In horror, Ray attempted to stem the flow of blood while fumbling for his cell phone. He called for an ambulance immediately. 

Ray grabbed two fresh towels and wrapped them tightly around Fraser's arms. Fraser groaned, his face pale. His eyes opened, and he saw Ray, his hands and shirt front covered in blood. 

"Ray?" He breathed. "You . . . why are you . . . " 

"Shhh, Benny, don't say anything. There's an ambulance coming, you're gonna be fine. Just don't worry about anything . . . " Ray was talking as much to ease his own mind as he was to ease Fraser's. 

"Ray, I . . . you have to understand, I . . . " His face paled as he tried to speak. Ray laid a hand gently over his mouth, feeling with disgust the swollen lip he had caused earlier. 

"Shhh . . . Benny." He whispered. "I understand. Save your strength." 

Fraser's head rolled back against the pillows, and Ray thought for a horrible moment that he was too late. But Fraser continued to breathe. And Ray continued to kneel beside him, pressing his hand against the wounds on Fraser's arms, trying desperately to save his friend's life. 

*Monday.* 

Fraser looked up apprehensively when Ray came into his hospital room carrying a paper bag and a coffee cup. 

"I brought you some real breakfast." Ray smirked. 

Fraser didn't look happy. He stared down at his hands, folded in his lap. 

"Benny . . . " Ray whispered . . . "I'm sorry." 

"I know you are, Ray." He said softly. "I'm sorry . . . for what I did." He turned his hands palm up so Ray could see the bandages. He bit his lip. 

"I'm sorry for getting mad at you." Ray stammered. "I just got so . . . angry, I felt . . . violated somehow . . . and I didn't know what to do. I didn't think." 

"I did a lot of thinking." Fraser said. "I did too much thinking. And not enough doing. But what I've been thinking . . . " 

"If you're thinking of leaving . . . " Ray warned. 

"I won't do anything about what I think." 

"Think away, Benny. At least now I know." Ray looked at Fraser. "But Fraser . . . I don't see you that way . . . " 

"I know you don't, Ray." Fraser said mournfully. Then he looked up at Ray with a gleam of mischief in his eyes. "At least not yet . . . " 

Ray was taken aback. Fraser was insinuating that . . . he was . . . Then he stopped and thought about it. There was a mutual respect there. An admiration that could easily become more than just friendship . . . if both were willing . . . 

Friendship, for now, was good enough for him. He had a feeling it was the same for Fraser. He smiled as he handed over the coffee and paper bag. At least now they understood, at least now they knew how they felt. 

Fraser smiled inwardly at Ray's expression. He felt a warm feeling spread out from his heart, washing the pain and hurt away. He could never be hurt by this man. Not intentionally . . . he was so happy he felt like dancing . . . but of course, being a Mountie, he never showed it. 

Ray saw that glint in his eye and wondered . . . 

THE END 

By Jennifer Coe 

jesterangel@hotmail.com 

* * *


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